I'm at a bar, but I think it's a bar and a deli. (Do those exist? Because that kinda sounds like a good idea.) My husband is around somewhere, but he's getting ready to leave on a trip for a while. Maybe we're at the airport?
I'm hovering around the bar waiting to order a drink. It's very bright in there, reminiscent of school cafeteria lighting more than bar lighting. The bar has a white counter and a light wood railing. A very cheap oak, maybe Formica even. I order a mixed drink and an inexperienced bartender starts to make it. I see her messing it up, but I don't say anything.
Either while I'm paying or right after I've paid, a short, fat man without much hair is standing in front of me behind the bar. He holds a napkin over his hands, and then holds them out over me, over my lap. I see a drop of blood fall onto my leg and panic, but when he points out he pricked his finger (and it wasn't my blood) I calm down a little. As I start to ask him why he did that, he holds the needle toward me and grazes my arm with it.
My skin doesn't break, but there's a scraping sensation and a line where it was scratched. Somehow, I find out the man has HIV. He's laughing at me. I am stunned and can't move for a minute. The panic rushes back in.
I race out of the bar to find my husband and tell him what happened. I look everywhere, and just when I am about to break down in tears I find him and he begins to reassure me everything will be OK. We'll get it taken care of. We'll figure it out.